


got no common sense

by couldaughter



Series: space manhattans [3]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: But They Do Throw Parties Despite That, Dialogue Heavy, Established Relationship, Getting Together, Like... Very Selectively, M/M, The Federation Is Ethically Dubious From The Perspective Of Neocolonialism, it's complicated - Freeform, selectively canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 07:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19043725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: “If you must know, I’m here for moral support. My husband hates these parties almost as much as you do.”“That’d be a tall order,” said Jim. “Which one is he? I gotta duel for my honour.”“Tall, dark, and half-Vulcan,” said the other man, pointing directly at a half-Vulcan Jim knew quite well. Twice over, in fact.





	got no common sense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magaliiiii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magaliiiii/gifts).



> working title: 3 space 3 manhattans
> 
> no betas we die like theydies

The official welcoming suite at the San Francisco Non-Denominational Worship Space was packed to the brim with officers, admirals, and galactic dignitaries, united in their pursuit of continuing peace, harmony, and tiny finger sandwiches.

It was cramped, stuffy, and there was an unofficial prohibition on fucking off to the balcony and staring wistfully up at the stars.

The Enterprise delegation had arrived barely half an hour beforehand and half of them were already completely AWOL - Spock was off with the Vulcan Science Academy (what was left of it), Sulu was talking fencing with a troupe of Andorian gymnasts, and McCoy was -- well, honestly Jim had no fucking idea.

He sighed, sipped at his tragically non-alcoholic cocktail, and tugged at his collar. “Is there anything worse than a dress uniform?” he asked the room, feeling very much put-upon.

“Relentless, fascistic imperialism on a galactic scale?”

Nyota was of course carrying the dress uniform off with no visible effort whatsoever, although Jim had spent enough time with her off duty by then to understand that this was a deliberate ruse which required hours of rigorous preparation. It was not to be dismissed lightly. 

There was really no appropriate response but more sighing, and Jim thought he should probably save those for later, after all the Ambassadors had left. Maybe to be shared with Spock over a replicated chicken sandwich and plomeek soup, respectively. “Well, sure, but that’s kind of another conversation.”

“Whatever you say, Captain,” she replied, brushing a stray crumb from the shoulder of her jacket. She was smiling faintly, which Jim counted as a victory. “Besides, didn’t you have to wear that mohair tunic on Centaurus VI last month? That’s gotta itch.”

Jim had in fact managed to forget about the itching monstrosity from Centaurus VI until just that moment. He nodded in defeat. “You have a point there, friend.”

“Gotta keep you humble somehow,” she said, and wandered off to talk to Carol. Jim didn’t blame her; if he had a stunningly attractive significant other he could plausibly cling to like a limpet all evening, he wouldn’t hesitate. He allowed himself half a sigh, glanced involuntarily at the VSA delegation, caught a glimpse of Starfleet greys in the sea of flowing robes, and choked on his drink.

The parties weren’t really the problem, Jim was beginning to realise. He didn’t mind the mocktails, or the hors d’oeuvres, or the excess of low chairs to trip over. It was the absolutely mind-numbing conversations he kept getting trapped in.

Case in point:

“Evening, Kirk,” said Admiral Thwaites, who Kirk had a faint memory of speaking to once as a very tired six year old at a memorial for his father. He’d been offered candy, he was fairly sure, and thrown up on the guy’s shoes in retaliation.

“Good evening, Admiral,” he replied, cursing the day he was born. “How’s the… family?”

“Good, good,” Thwaites said, looking somewhat constipated. “Jules is quite well, he’s at home with the twins. That’s not what I’m here to ask about, though--”

 _Of course it isn’t,_ thought Jim. _That would be dangerously close to interesting._

“It’s the trade agreement we’re brokering with Janus - we on the ground here really don’t know the situation up there, but they claim there’s a lot of pirates that would prevent us getting a really good percentage of dilithium through the quadrant safely.”

It was at that point that Jim tuned him out, safe in the knowledge that humming in acknowledgement every minute or so would get him through the interaction unscathed. He was fine being a sounding board, he just wished people would be more upfront about it.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Jim startled back to reality. A man he really hadn’t seen before had clapped a hand on Thwaites’ shoulder with a confidence that presumably only came with decades of experience, if the crow’s feet were anything to go by.

“By all means,” said Jim, seizing the opportunity. He tipped his mocktail into a convenient potted plant - a fern of some kind, possibly rare, definitely not drunk, hopefully not vulnerable to replicated punch. “I was gonna get another drink, if you wanted to--”

“Lead the way,” said the other man. He was wearing a decidedly not regulation plaid shirt and corduroy trousers, which made Jim so momentarily jealous he felt sure he was about to collapse, or possibly vomit.

The drinks table was thankfully not that busy, due to the lack of alcohol, and Jim had no problem pouring himself a glass of water to rinse the taste of artificial fruit from his mouth.

The other man pulled a flask out of his shirt pocket and poured about half into a champagne glass. 

“Always prepared, huh?” Jim asked, leaning against a nearby pillar.

“Oh, I try to be,” said the other man. “It’s usually served me well, despite some hefty opposition.”

“A man after my own heart,” said Jim, and toasted his water with the other man’s… whatever it was. It smelled like the backside of a bar, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, observing the crowd milling back and forth. Jim could see Nyota and Carol laughing together with an Andorian commander, and Scotty and Keenser in a loud, possibly violent debate about warp core mechanics with a Betazoid in ambassadorial purple.

“Warms the heart, doesn’t it,” said the other man. He smiled, one corner of his mouth tipping up just slightly. “The Federation couldn’t’ve planned it any better.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Jim. “They're all bastards, might see it as an opportunity to spice things up and throw a Klingon or two into the mix.”

Spock’s last comm from his sister had contained a few… interesting asides. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, anyway.

The other man laughed, short and sharp. “Glad to hear Starfleet hasn’t completely bled off independent thought.”

“They do their best, though,” said Jim. “And that’s what matters.” He grinned. “What brings you here tonight, anyway? I’m guessing from the outfit you’re not on official business.”

“For all you know I could be a spy, or a mob boss,” said the other man. He affected a Chicago accent. “It’s all in the details, see?”

Jim shook his head. “Too short.”

“I resemble that remark,” the other man replied, lightning fast. “If you must know, I’m here for moral support. My husband hates these parties almost as much as you do.”

“That’d be a tall order,” said Jim. “Which one is he? I gotta duel for my honour.”

“Tall, dark, and half-Vulcan,” said the other man, pointing directly at a half-Vulcan Jim knew quite well. Twice over, in fact.

“Ambassador Spock? I didn’t know he had it in him.” 

Jim glanced sidelong at the man stood beside him. It couldn’t actually be --

“Ah, Jim,” said Ambassador Spock, who had clearly heard them speaking of the devil. “I was just wondering where you’d wandered off to. If I have to prevent another international incident before next March, I’ll expect hefty compensation.”

“Don’t I already compensate you enough with my continued presence?” asked -- well, Jim, apparently. He pressed his fingers to the Ambassador's, index and middle together, just for a moment.

Jim rubbed his forehead. This was absolutely typical. Any second now Romulans were going to swarm the building.

“We’ve abolished currency,” he muttered, not remotely happy about the conversation he could feel developing. It’d been going so well.

“Ambassador, I don’t know if you’ve had the pleasure,” said Jim’s older counterpart, now with a distinct impression of a twinkling eye on the horizon. “This is Captain James T Kirk, of the USS Enterprise. I hear it has windows now.”

“Frightfully impractical,” said the Ambassador, in the way that Jim had always suspected meant he wanted to smile. He’d performed field tests on his own Spock, and yielded mixed results. “But yes, I’ve had the pleasure. Jim, it’s good to see you.”

“You too, Ambassador. And your -- husband. Who is definitely a man I have no familiarity with whatsoever, genetic or otherwise.”

“Good save, kid,” said Old Jim, all curly hair and greying temples and eyes of completely the wrong colour. Jim wondered whether they’d seen the same things, nonetheless. “We’ll make a galactic hero of you yet.”

“ _Ashayam_ ,” said the Ambassador, without turning towards his husband. “Is this yet another example of your earth concept of… humour?” His expression remained steadfast.

“Go soak your head, dear,” Old Jim replied. It was something like an old joke, Jim could tell. “It’s not like you were having any fun at this party before I found your protegé’s soon-to-be squeeze.”

Ambassador Spock raised his eyebrows. Jim clung to the gesture like a man drowning clings to a lifebelt.

He wasn’t going to touch what his counterpart had just said with a ten foot pole. Even if it _did_ spark the memory of near countless late-night 3D chess matches. Spock’s quarters were lit in a way which was, frankly, _intrusively_ romantic, even if it went a long way to concealing Jim’s apparently incredibly obvious facial expressions.

Nyota had informed him of this at some length, during a late night drinking session fuelled by Scotty’s still and yet another brush with death at the hands of the Gorn. It was a blurry memory, but it had still made a lasting impression.

And speaking of his first officer --

“Spock!” Jim called, roping in the commander with a long arm and a determined stare. _Please save me from them_ , he didn’t say, but he thought his body language ought to put it across. 

“Ah, Captain,” said Spock, not having noticed exactly who Jim was speaking to. He looked uncomfortable, Jim thought. He fought the urge to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I was just about to locate you - there has been a disturbance in the --”

“Hi, Commander,” said Old Jim, cheerfully. “Wouldn’t want you to leave without saying hello.”

Spock turned with the air of an Old Earth airman preparing to face a firing squad. He gave the ta’al with uncharacteristic briskness, and sighed. “Good evening Ambassador, and, ah --”

“Ambassadorial consort works best for me,” said Old Jim, brushing off the front of his flannel shirt. “But I’d accept Ex-Admiral, if you insisted.”

Spock ignored him, which Jim thought was probably the best response in the circumstances. 

“It’s good to see you, Commander,” replied the Ambassador, equally serene in ignoring his husband. Jim could see the matching rings, now, discreet as they were. “I regret that you must depart but, as they say, duty calls.”

“Indeed,” said Spock, stood ramrod straight as always. “Perhaps we could reconvene at a later time.”

“So long as the Captain is amenable to losing a valuable member of his crew for the evening,” replied the Ambassador. He was _definitely_ smiling, the old bastard. 

“He could always come along as well,” said Old Jim, also smiling, also an old bastard. “But we really shouldn’t keep you. Comm when you’re free, Spock, and we’ll do our best to accommodate. You know we old men like to keep up with the scuttlebutt however we can.”

“Of course,” said Spock. He turned to Jim, inclining his head, and pulled him away by the elbow before Jim could blink.

“Apologies, Captain,” he continued, as they made their way to the exit - a pair of double doors festooned with streamers like it was Jim’s high school prom and not a high level Federation soirée. “They are, ah, somewhat difficult to disengage.”

“I’d noticed,” said Jim, with a slow blink. He nudged Spock in the ribs. “So, what’s this disturbance we’re investigating?”

“Yes,” said Spock, with a look Jim recognised from dozens of wild animals he’d caught in the headlights of his step-dad’s car. “The disturbance.”

Realisation dawned like the sun. “Oh my god, _Spock,_ ” said Jim, completely delighted. “Did you _lie_ to your _alternate self_?”

Spock coughed. “I suppose that is one interpretation of the events as they occurred. Strictly speaking.”

“And now we’re all alone, in a secluded corridor, with not even a disturbance to quash,” said Jim, leaning against the wall, hips cocked. “Whatever will we do to pass the time?”

Look, there were only a limited number of revelations a guy could have in an evening before he acted on one of them; Jim Kirk had been working on one particular one for the majority of a five year mission. It wasn’t his fault if the sight of an alternate version of himself was the proverbial straw that broke the sehlat's back.

Spock stood up straighter. Jim wasn’t certain that was actually geometrically possible, but he managed it. “Captain --”

“Jim.”

“Jim,” Spock began, then coughed. It had come out somewhat strangled. “Jim, I don’t wish you to be -- unduly influenced, by our alternate selves. Much as my own preferences would align, I cannot prioritise them at risk to yourself.”

Jim felt a ballooning fondness in his chest. “Spock, when have you ever known me to change my mind based on someone else’s opinion?”

“Admittedly a rare occurrence, but a lack of prior evidence does not negate the possibility --”

“Shut up and kiss me,” said Jim, with a grin he hoped was more rakish than lovestruck. 

Spock merely raised an eyebrow. “And why must I take the initiative in this encounter, Jim?”

“It’s how all the holodeck programs would do it, I bet,” said Jim. “Although I confess that’s not really my scene.”

“We are not discussing the fetishisation of pre-Surak Vulcan society.”

“I love when you talk Vulcan to me,” said Jim. Spock had, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not, stepped closer, bracketing Jim in against the wall. It was a very convenient alcove. He could feel Spock’s breath against his cheek. “But I can’t help but feel you’re changing the subject.”

Spock bit his lip. Jim inhaled sharply.

He sighed, a full one this time, and took a risk. It was kind of his thing. 

Leaning in to kiss Spock, warm and dry, was far easier than he'd expected. Jim closed his eyes and savoured the moment before pulling away, feeling unaccountably shy.

Spock’s eyes were wide, and bright. It was kind of breathtaking.

It was… well, adjectives could wait. He chuckled, struck with nerves. 

Spock took his hand, twisted their fingers together. This was, as Jim understood it, basically second base. 

“Let’s talk about this later,” he said, with utmost confidence, and reeled Spock back in.

**Author's Note:**

> this series is only going to get increasingly more stupid and self indulgent but i've made peace with that and so has prime universe jim kirk's wardrobe of lesbian fashion items
> 
> next time: birkenstocks 
> 
> title from somebody to love by queen, because 1) yeah obviously, and 2) i watched all of good omens today and i'm having some emotions about it
> 
> find me on twitter and tumblr @dotsayers! i always enjoy feedback and comments and such - even if i am a flesh muppet who is bad at replying please know that i treasure each and every one of you


End file.
